Whatever Became of Sin

Three

ThreeOn board the 757 that will soon transport Michael to New Orleans, the attendants are readying the plane for flight. A service worker moves decisively up the aisle placing a complimentary set of head phones in each of the seat pockets. He stops at seat 7F and pulls off one of the ear pads, places a small device inside, replaces the pad, reseals the packet, then tucks the head phones in the seat pocket.

The service worker, a young Cajun named Paulie Dupree, knew exactly who would be sitting in seat 7F, if Gerhardt Schmidt was as good as he said he was. The passenger manifesto had been easily hacked into and Schmidt had a plan to put Michael Warren in that seat, right next to him. For Schmidt, proximity to Michael would enable him to pass along the “smoking gun” that would disrupt Michael Warren's entire life, and then destroy the lives of the people who robbed Warren of the one thing he treasured above all else.

But Paulie Dupree didn't know what Schmidt was really up to, or why he was even on the same flight. It wasn't Schmidt who hired Dupree to rig the headset. He was just a liaison for the main man, whoever that was. Dupree had no idea who had hired him or why. But the money was good, and its source undetectable. Paulie Dupree didn't care what part Schmidt did or didn't play in the entire scenario, nor did he ever suspect that the man would make a fateful decision that would cost him his life.

Michael crumbles up the food wrappers from his vending machine snacks and tosses them in the trash when he hears his name being paged on the loud speaker. He picks up the nearest courtesy phone. “Al? My cell? Guess it's buried in my overnighter. No, the flight was delayed a few minutes. What's up?”

“I just got a very strange call, Mike,” Jergens says. “Some informant wants to give you some valuable information before tomorrow's hearing.”

“What informant? What kind of information?”

“I don't know, but he says it will blow the lid right off the case, in our favor. He'll be on your flight to New Orleans, oddly enough. Expect a stranger to become friendly with you. He'll talk about the travesty of the Indians.”

Michael snorts derisively. “What Indians? The Cleveland Indians, for Christ sake?”

“Cute,” Jergens retorts. “I don't know what tribe. But I doubt too many people will start a conversation about what the white man did to the red man.”

“I gotta go, Al,” Michael says, hearing the boarding announcement. “I'll call you when I land, if I meet the Indian man.”

Michael shrugs off the conversation, believing Jergens has fallen prey to some crank caller. He is used to them. They have hounded him constantly, ever since he started lobbying for the environment instead of for big industry. Ever since Paradise Springs.

Michael hadn't been to New Orleans since then. He had to escape all the memories, the nightmares, and so he moved to San Francisco. He threw himself into activism, hoping to assuage the guilt he felt for what had happened to all the people, especially the children, who had lived – and died - in Paradise Springs. He became a one-man “green machine,” as they dubbed him - ready, willing, and able to expose the violations big business committed against the air, land, and water regulations on residential developments.

Now, as he heads back to his previous city of residence, he recalls the first day he and his family moved to their new home…

It was a crisp spring day six years ago when the moving van rolled into the picturesque new housing development, a sprawling array of upscale custom homes nestled in 538 acres of rolling hills, unspoiled woodlands and meadows carpeted with pink, red, violet, and yellow flowers. The quality of life was enriched by a golf course designed so masterfully it was rated as “one of the best courses in America to tee up.” The sign at the entryway welcomed residents and visitors to “Paradise Springs – a Utopian Concept in Community Living.”

Michael's wife, Elaine Warren, a fastidious, high-strung Southern belle, directed the movers through the ornate double doors at the front of the luxurious home.

“Place the Remington on the mantel…for God's sake, be careful…it's very valuable. The grand piano goes in the library in front of the garden doors…no, no, not there…the love seat goes along the north wall by the fountain, the sofa belongs in front of the fireplace…”

Happy to leave the movers to Elaine, Michael strolled out the French doors to the garden veranda and perused the acreage surrounding his home, abundant with mature trees as well as newly planted, blossoming shrubbery. He breathed in the fresh air and nodded his head, satisfied, yet somehow uncertain about something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Like a wood sprite, his soon to be six-year-old daughter, Dominique, ran past Michael, followed by her frisky golden retriever puppy, Ralph. The sight of her, his darling daughter, filled him with bliss, leaving no room for uncertain feelings.

Dominique stepped adroitly across the cobblestones and rocks dotting the pond that sparkled in the sunlight just steps from the garden, while Ralph happily slopped in and out of the water chasing the birds and ducks that were still swifter than he was at this point. But in a thicket on the far side of the pond, where Michael and his daughter could not see, a few birds lay dead on top of a mud hole that gurgled with slimy, putrid liquid.

“Don't go too far, Dominique,” Michael called in his proudly paternal tone. Dominique?”

She ran back as breezily as she went, and reassured him. “I'm here, Daddy.”

Soggy wet, Ralph came running up and jumped up toward Michael, but his outstretched hand held the pup back from soiling his clean, pale blue trousers. Dominique giggled joyously.

“Ralph, you crazy mutt,” Michael admonished the puppy affectionately. “Get down. God, don't go into the house like that. Elaine will kill both of us.”

He tethered Ralph's leash to the leg of the sturdy wood table he had built himself, and folded Dominique's hand in his. “Come on inside, sweetheart. Daddy has to go back to work. You be a good girl and help Mommy unpack.”

“I will, Daddy. I love our new house. I want to live here for the rest of my life.”

“Me, too, sweetie. Me, too.”

Annoyed at him, which was her usual mood these days, Elaine complained, “Must you go back to the office today.”

Michael glanced at Elaine and for an instant time was suspended. Before him stood a still-elegant woman, but the once-soft lips were now taut with scorn, and the lyrical, soothing voice was now shrill with anguish and nervousness. When did she change? And why?

“I must,” Michael said shortly.

“Well, please be home for dinner. There's not a soul around here except us.”

Michael picked up his briefcase and headed for the door. “You wanted to be the first to move in, if you recall.”

“Daddy thought it would be fitting,” she reminded him.

Michael took a lingering look at the portrait of the menacing Henry Broussard hanging on the parlor wall, in a very prominent place where he had to look at it every time he set foot in the room. His stomach churned at the thought. “Yes, we must always do what is fitting for Daddy Broussard.”

“Oh, stop it, Michael,” Elaine snapped. “You're like a pouting child. You stand to make as much money from Paradise Springs as Daddy.”

Michael sighed deeply, knowing she was right, resenting himself for it as much as he resented Henry Broussard, and perhaps Elaine herself for being as ambitious as he.

“I'll try not to be late,” he said, and left the house, knowing it would be a long night.